


Bridge

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Character, Divorce, Friendship, Humor, Lestrade Needs Love, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Between S2Ep1 and S2Ep2 Greg gets his divorce underway, goes on vacation with his kids, and gets a call from Mycroft.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bwblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwblack/gifts).



> _For a prompt on LJ's Sherlocked fest by bwblack. This is a belated (sorry—I am slow!) birthday offering for her, with a Texas-size hug attached. Gratitude beyond measure to marysutherland for betaing. Her questions and suggestions really improved it. And Sid Paget's work for Mycroft and his footage of Lestrade's arse owes its existence to marysutherland's fics, especially the delicious series of Sid Paget shorts.  
>  Formerly posted under another pseud; reposting under new pseud._

Greg Lestrade lay propped on his elbows in the sand, the reflection of a choppy blue-green Atlantic dancing in his bronze aviators. Lucie and Jeremy were thirty yards down the beach, digging for baby crabs. They hadn’t stopped giggling and splashing all morning.  
  
It was finally sinking into his brain and his bones just how much the kids had needed this—how much they’d all needed it. A chance to abandon wellies for bare feet. Trade their pasty London pallor for cheeks burnished by subtropical sun. Heat and light and cloudless skies were ideal palliatives for the winter’s wounds.  
  
The awkward silences and whispered battles of Christmas had given way to a gloomy New Year’s week spent dividing the furniture, CDs, and books, packing up the flat, and signing papers. Joint custody, two weeks a month at her new flat, two weeks at his. Weekends and holidays were split down the middle. His neighbor, Mrs. Carter had kids about the same age and said she’d be on call anytime he needed her—which would be often. It was all civilized and amicable—at least that’s how he and Jean wanted it to look, for the children’s sake.  
  
But it felt more surreal than civilized. He’d asked about the affair and she’d said yes, it was true, and she was sorry she hadn’t told him months ago. He’d asked if it was over and she’d said no. Did she love the guy? She’d started crying and left the room. When she came back, he’d asked again.  
  
“So do you love him? Are you in love with him?”  
  
“No. But I love that when I’m with him I feel like myself again. I don’t feel like just a wife or a mother or a journalist. I feel . . . I feel like I’ve been in a cage for a long time, and he gave me the key to escape it.”  
  
He’d stared at her for what seemed like hours, but was probably mere seconds. He couldn’t fathom that she was describing their life together as a cage—a prison. So what was he, her fucking jailer?  
  
“I don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about. You used to say if I cut down the hours at work, you’d be happier. If we spent a little more time together—is that what you still want? Maybe I can . . .”  
  
“No. Not anymore.”  
  
“So you don’t need us anymore—your family? Or you just don’t need _me_ anymore?” He’d promised himself he wouldn’t raise his voice, but now he couldn’t tell if he was screaming or whispering.  
  
She opened her mouth, but he couldn’t hear any words. She had a look of pity on her face that made his stomach churn. He thought he might vomit.  
  
“You just want him, then?”  
  
"You’re not listening. It’s not him I want. It’s me. I just want to see what it’s like to not be Greg’s wife and Lucie and Jeremy’s mother twenty-four hours a day, every day. That’s what I want.”  
  
And after that, there was nothing else to say.  
  
* * * * *  
  
February left him numb. He felt as though he’d never really known her. How could you live with someone thirteen years and not know her? Without a word to Greg, she and Eric—the infamous twenty-something blonde P.E. teacher—dropped the children at Jean’s mum’s house in Dorset during half-term week so she could celebrate her forty-fifth birthday in Paris.  
  
She’d never told Greg she wanted to go to Paris. And he'd never asked.  
  
By March the reality had sunk in. He’d flung his wedding ring into the Thames, and just managed to avoid jumping in after it. He’d pulled a credit card out of his wallet and booked the flight and hotels. The school staff looked the other way when he took the kids out of school for a week. The consensus in the teacher’s lounge was solidly Team Greg, with the headteacher determined to make Eric’s remaining tenure at the school as miserable as possible.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Greg closed his eyes and let the sound of the sea drown out all the rubbish that had weighed him down for the past year. Into the mental dustbin went the wife—no, _ex-wife_ —who said she simply didn’t care for him anymore. Tossed into the dustbin after her was the D.C.I. who cared only about how many more cases Greg could clear, preferably with fewer officers and less money than last year, thanks very much. And of course, right on top of all the other rubbish—like that hapless CIA bloke they found amongst Mrs Hudson’s bins a few months ago—there was Sherlock, who'd proved time and again with the way he treated Sally, poor Molly—even John sometimes—that he didn’t have a clue what it meant to care about anyone or anything beyond himself.  
  
And what about the other Holmes? Greg had never been able to decipher that one. They’d lived in the same small universe orbiting Sherlock for years. But Greg still sometimes thought they were strangers, linked only by their keen interest in keeping the genius from imploding. Oftentimes lately, though, they were more like professional colleagues who looked after each other—watched each other’s backs. And on rare occasions, he had the feeling they were actually friends. Greg had seen Mycroft soften and allow his mask to slip away three or four times when they were alone—and he rather liked the man he saw underneath.  
  
There had been difficult moments in getting to the more or less comfortable relationship the two men had now. In the wake of all the tragedies last year—especially after Ruth Kellerman, the blind old lady, and all those innocents in her block of flats had been blown to bits—Greg had felt shaken to his core. And he’d taken it out on the wrong Holmes. He’d been furious that his team had become so dependent on Sherlock’s abilities, his timetable, his whims. Maybe if they’d been faster off the mark, the old lady could have been found, something could have stopped the waste.  
  
After attending a memorial service for Ruth, Greg had swallowed too many pints, followed by too many whiskies, and rung up Mycroft at one a.m., threatening to leave Sherlock in the cold, capable hands of Gregson and Dimmock forever more. In response, Greg had been snatched from the pub and treated to a ride around the city in Mycroft’s version of a Batmobile and subjected to a long condescending lecture about keeping his mind, not his emotions, in control of his actions at all times.  
  
“In conclusion, Inspector, in our work caring is not an advantage. You must remember this, and behave accordingly.” Mycroft had punctuated his summary statement with a tap of his umbrella on the pavement in front of Greg’s feet, as they stood together in front of New Scotland Yard.  
  
Greg wasn’t really listening by this time. He was feeling angry and powerless, remembering Ruth and that little kid’s voice on the phone . . . just a kid, like his own kids . . . so it suddenly seemed a good time to give Mycroft Holmes a piece of his mind—a good time to make a Holmes listen to _him_ for a change. His patience was gone, and he was too pissed to care about consequences.  
  
Carlos, Mycroft’s driver, had been told to walk around the corner so they could discuss the pips case privately, and they were standing—at Mycroft’s insistence—just out of the sightlines of two CCTV cameras. Greg seized Mycroft’s umbrella, one hand tightly gripping each end, and pressed it against the insufferable know-it-all’s chest, backing him up hard against the chilly stone façade of the building.  
  
Maybe he should have stuck with the Guinness. Whisky always made him reckless and honest.  
  
“For once, could you just shut the fuck up, Mycroft. As your brother would say: You’re wrong, wrong, wrong. Caring is our _only_ advantage.” Greg let his full weight fall against Mycroft, who remained motionless, eyes closed, stunned into silence.  
  
Breathing heavily and feeling a dangerous mix of alcohol and adrenaline in his veins, Greg brushed his lips against Mycroft’s ear, repeating in a menacing tone he never used outside an interrogation room, “How dare you try to tell me how to do my job?”  
  
The unmistakable feel of an erection against Greg’s hip was no great surprise. He’d always known Mycroft wanted him, so maybe he’d take advantage of that weakness. He pressed a thigh between Mycroft’s legs and spoke deliberately—his syllables hot and wet against the man’s pale throat. “You’ve been talking absolute shit all night, Mycroft. You care as much or more than I do. You care about the Queen and the bloody Commonwealth and the lives of every man, woman, and child in it. That’s why you’re in a plane on the way to Outer fucking Mongolia or God-knows-where every time I call you.”  
  
Greg could feel Mycroft’s pulse quickening, and could feel his body vulnerable—breakable—against him. He imagined how easily he could snap a limb or choke the life right out of him. Mycroft slowly opened his eyes, but didn’t move, didn’t struggle, showed no fear.  
  
God, what the hell was he doing? Mycroft wasn’t his enemy, and none of this carnage was his fault, was it? Why was he trying to hurt him?  
  
The anger dissolved into something else—something he couldn’t define. Was it just despair? A need for some sort of understanding? He still needed Mycroft to listen to him, to pay attention, so he moved one hand up to touch Mycroft’s cheek and turned the man’s face towards his own. Greg continued softly, “You care about this city too. That’s why you shoved Sherlock in my path six years ago—because you knew he could help clean it up.”  
  
Mycroft kept quiet but moved his face against Greg’s hand like a cat begging to be stroked. Greg felt a knot of desire tightening in his gut, but he also felt confused and unsteady on his feet, so he paused for a deep breath and pulled away, releasing the pressure of the umbrella he still held with his left hand pressing against Mycroft’s chest.  
  
Then, realizing he had one more thing to say, he moved nose to nose with Mycroft again, declaring, “You can just keep pretending you don’t care about anything—about people. But you care about Sherlock. He’s your first thought when you wake up in the morning, and the last before you go to sleep. Are you going to deny that?”  
  
Mycroft took a few short, shaky breaths and then stared desperately at Greg for a moment— before straightening his waistcoat, rearranging his face into the usual mask of calm detachment, and checking his pocket watch. He didn’t answer, nor did he intone his customary threats at the D.I. He simply pulled a phone from his breast pocket and asked Carlos to return. Without looking back, he climbed into the car and sped away, leaving Greg to stumble alone into the building, where he slept off the rest of the whisky on a lumpy brown sofa in Anderson’s office.  
  
* * * *  
  
Things had been easier for awhile after that, once John and Sherlock started taking some cases that didn’t involve insane bombers. And in June, he and Mycroft had what Mycroft kept referring to jokingly (or so Greg thought at the time) as their “first date” during Sherlock’s Geek Interpreter case.  
  
That afternoon might count as the most fun the D.I. had had all year, aside from a few weekends with the kids. John had let slip to Anthea what he and Sherlock were planning, and Mycroft had invited Greg to join him for “surveillance.” They had donned sunglasses, jeans, and hoodies and positioned themselves at an outdoor café in Soho. They’d had to get there early to stake out the best view, so had plenty of time over tea and biscuits to exchange stories about their own favorite comic book heroes and villains, plus reviews of all the large- and small-screen incarnations of Batman. Greg was surprised Mycroft had actually read comic books as a kid , but not surprised that he’d had a crush on Robin and an all-consuming obsession with Batman’s nemesis, the Penguin, at age ten.  
  
“The one in black tie who carried an umbrella?” asked Greg with a booming laugh.  
  
Mycroft simply nodded and quickly changed the subject.  
  
When John and Sherlock arrived in their ninja costumes, Mycroft had signaled his personal videographer, Sid Paget, to get the whole “fight” on film. When the thing went up on Sid’s YouTube channel—complete with artsy cuts to extreme close-ups and slow-motion tumbling—the genius sulked for days because John seemed to be the more dashing figure in black mask and boots.  
  
“Paget’s forte is fiction, rather than the documentary, isn’t it?” Sherlock had sniffed.  
  
Greg had to give Mycroft his due—he knew how to get under Sherlock’s skin in a way the D.I. had never been able to master. And once Mycroft knew that Greg appreciated seeing Sherlock cut down to size occasionally, there were weekly emails from thepenguin@hotmail.com with attachments of embarrassing Sherlock cartoons, gifs, and audio files guaranteed to elicit at least a giggle, if not a full-blown fit of laughter.  
  
Greg couldn’t remember when the “x” started appearing at the end of each email. But then a few weeks after their ninja-watching date, Sid was hired to assemble all available footage of Greg’s arse into something akin to a BAFTA Lifetime Achievement tribute. Greg found that one by accident one day, scrolling through Sid’s YouTube page again.  
  
Had he been single at the time, Greg would have had no objections to trying it on with Mycroft. He and Sherlock’s brother had more in common, truth be told, than Greg and his wife did. And Greg had never really understood why people made such a fuss over exactly _where_ a bloke put his dick. He knew you were supposed to “pick a team” and stick with it, but if you went mad for someone, you just wanted to find out what made them laugh and cry and come, didn’t you? He’d fallen for a couple of men and a few women before Jean, and the equipment between their legs was pretty irrelevant.  
  
But he certainly wasn’t going to cheat on his wife—and definitely not with the British Government, in any case. But he saw no reason not to respond with a grin or a ; ) when Mycroft “accidentally” brushed a hand across his knee or tried to flirt via email. Just a harmless bit of fun, after all. Nothing would ever come of it.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Leaning back in the sand, Greg kept his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead, recalling the feel of Mycroft’s skin against his fingers and the epic hangover that had dogged him the day after that angry encounter almost a year ago, and how he had learnt to appreciate Mycroft a little more since then. And how Mycroft maybe did a little more appreciating of Greg than was appropriate sometimes.  
  
Now a shadow fell across his face and chest, blocking the healing warmth. When he opened his eyes he was sure the familiar face was a hallucination. He blinked and pulled off his sunglasses, trying to make her disappear. She took a BlackBerry from her straw handbag and held it under his nose.  
  
Yeah, she was real.

“Good morning to you too, Anthea. What a surprise. Just pop over to chat, did you?”  
  
“Mr. Holmes would like to speak to you, Inspector. I’ll watch the children, if you’d like to step away to take the call in private.”  
  
“What the hell are you doing here . . .” But before he could get on his feet to interrogate Anthea properly, she was slipping out of her shiny red sandals and swishing down the beach to the kids, a turquoise sarong draped around her strictly-business, tailored black swimsuit. Familiar round tones came out of the phone she’d dropped into his hand.  
  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade—Hello, hello?”  
  
“Jesus, Mycroft. Have you lost your . . .”  
  
“What a delight to hear your voice. I trust your holiday is pleasant, sunny . . . wet? All that a visit to a Third World paradise should be?”  
  
“Hilarious. I’m in Florida, and you know it, Mycroft. You also know I’m off duty for five more days, right? You should be calling Dimmock if you need someone to handle Sherlock’s foolishness.”  
  
“Yes, Gregory, I must apologize. If this were not a matter of utmost delicacy and danger, I wouldn’t interrupt your holiday, but . . .”  
  
“No, Mycroft. No. I don't just drop everything to do your bidding. I’ve got the kids with me and tomorrow I’m taking them to an amusement park—then we’re off to the Everglades to see alligators. Clearly, you need to find yourself some other idiot to handle Sherlock . . .”  
  
“Good heavens, what a horrific notion. You are the eyes and ears of the British Government— _my_ eyes and ears—and it is vital that you return immediately. It seems that Sherlock has used my identification and entered a highly classified military lab. I can’t imagine what mischief he has in mind, but when I tell you that scientists at this laboratory are successfully cloning small mammals and developing mutations of various sorts in rabbits, monkeys, and ferrets. . .”  
  
“Oh shit,” Greg gasped. In his experience, Sherlock and ferrets were never a good combination. He couldn’t let his imagination conjure what Sherlock would do with the power to clone anything . . . or anyone. “Oh shit,” he repeated.  
  
“Exactly. I don’t like the look of it a bit, and I must find out exactly what he and John are up to as quickly as possible.” There was a brief pause before he added a barely audible, “Please.”  
  
“But Mycroft, even if I wanted to help you—I can’t just leave the children, and I won’t go back on what I’ve already promised them. As usual, you have no sympathy for other people’s feelings—least of all two kids who’ve been through enough crap for one year . . .”  
  
“I’m not heartless, Gregory. I understand children’s needs. Remember, I am at the mercy of Sherlock’s.”  
  
“If you ever compare my kids to Sherlock again, you’ll have my hands around your neck so fast . . .”  
  
“Are you trying to flirt with me, Gregory?”  
  
“Don’t start that now, Mycroft—I’m not in the mood.” Greg could tell Mycroft was trying to keep the conversation light—to avoid using the demanding tone the D.I. despised. At the same time, there was a subtle note of desperation and impatience in his voice that was worrisome.  
  
“Yes. Of course. What I should have said is that I would be grateful for your help. Anthea has a plane ticket, a small carry-on bag, and a laptop loaded with all the information you’ll need, including a rather strange series of television programs about a supernatural dog. From what I can gather the Baker Street pair have been engaged in some sort of canine ghost hunt. Your flight leaves in two hours, and Anthea will take over childcare until you return. I may be able to provide further details when you arrive at Heathrow.”  
  
Greg was about to laugh at the notion of Anthea as nanny, but stopped short when he thought he heard a tremor in Mycroft’s voice. He glanced toward the children and waved at Anthea, who seemed to have taken on the role of project manager for a sand castle and dependent hinterlands. Greg walked a little farther down the beach, until he was out of earshot of other tourists.  
  
“Do you want to talk about what’s really going on? You sound weird—moreso than usual I mean—you’re not yourself.”  
  
“I . . . I’ve been involved in a difficult interrogation of a particularly dangerous person of interest. We’ve had to use some . . . extralegal methods, and . . .”  
  
“Torture, Mycroft? We’ve gone down this road before, haven’t we? You don’t believe in that. It doesn’t work, and it ‘lowers one to the level of terrorists and Americans.’ Those are your words, remember?”  
  
A minute of silence passed before Mycroft replied in a measured, steady tone. “The problem, Gregory, is that the only other way to obtain the information we need will endanger Sherlock, and I don’t know . . . I don’t know whether I can do that. Yet . . . many lives may suffer if I don’t. This person’s associates are likely responsible for the abductions and bombings last year in Sherlock’s pips case. It’s . . . a difficult situation.”  
  
“Christ, Mycroft. I don’t know what to say.” Greg stood looking across the expanse of ocean, turning to face northeast, trying to make some sort of connection with Mycroft, who was, he imagined, sitting alone in a cold, poorly lit room with a glass of brandy in front of him.  
  
“Listen, Mycroft, I can’t give you any answers, but if you really think a lot of innocent people are in danger—you can put your faith in John, me, and the rest of the people you depend on to take care of Sherlock. We’ll watch out for him—you can do what you need to do. Okay? Trust us.”  
  
“I . . . Gregory, I can’t . . .” Greg heard the mute button click, and waited.  
  
A group of teenagers raced into the breaking waves in front of him, laughing, falling, teasing each other. Some of the boys carried girls and smaller boys on their shoulders. How long had it been since he’d felt that much pure joy—that much freedom? Is that what Jean was longing for? God, he hated getting old.  
  
At last, another click, and Mycroft’s smooth, controlled voice returned. “I trust you’ve decided you’ll be able to take this assignment, Gregory. As I said, Anthea will provide the background information you need, and all I ask is that you go to this godforsaken little hamlet on Dartmoor, and let me know what they’re up to, make sure they’re not in danger. I know you don’t care for firearms, but I’ll have a handgun available to you at the local police station, if you need it.”  
  
“Sherlock’s head is going to explode when he sees me. You know he’ll think you’ve sent me to spy on him . . . which you have.”  
  
“Simply ignore him. I’m sure John will be delighted to see another normal person after spending a few days in the wilderness with my brother . . .”  
  
“Mycroft, Devon is not the wilderness. Now let’s get to the important question: Are you sure Anthea is going to be able to handle the kids? She has to take them to this Wizarding World place and then there’s a kayak trip . . ."  
  
“You’ve nothing to be concerned about. Anthea spent her gap year traveling by boat through the Amazon, and her aunt is a close friend of Jacqueline Luesby, so she’s arranged a special treat for the young Lestrades.”  
  
“Jacqueline who?”  
  
“I believe if you direct your gaze towards Anthea just now, you’ll see Jacqueline, her daughter Emma Watson, and your children together.”  
  
Greg didn’t have to look; he heard the shrieks of glee before Mycroft finished explaining. Well, that was that, then. He said a quick farewell to Mycroft and shuffled over to the scene of leaping, dancing, chattering children, tugging at Hermione’s hand and refusing to allow her time to catch her breath between answers to their urgent questions. Clearly, he was now utterly superfluous.  
  
Anthea handed him two black bags she’d stashed under a nearby beach chair and pointed him towards the path through the palms that led back to his hotel. “You have just enough time to shower and change.”  
  
“So, it’s back to the cold and rain, then.”  
  
“Oh, we’re having a lovely warm spell—it feels like spring in London now, Inspector.”  
  
“Does it? Well, that’s a bit of good news at least. Thanks, Anthea. You know the drill from the last time you watched the kids. I expect you to call or text me every two hours to tell me how they're  getting along.”  
  
She held up her BlackBerry, tapped a few lines, and pressed a button. Greg looked down at the mobile in his hand to see her first update:  
  
 _Kids in heaven with Emma. Will send pix with alligators soon.  
Please say your goodbyes now.  
Mycroft needs you._

 


End file.
